Living For Today
by kendrat199
Summary: A post-season 4 montage that will take the lives of Alexander Mahone, Michael and Sara, Lincoln, Theodore "Teddy" Bagwell, Paul Kellerman, Sucre, C-Note, and Gretchen Morgan and conclude their lives through several chapters. Two authors, different genres


**Chapter 1**: No One Waits for the day to Begin

**Author's Notes**: This story will detail the conclusions (or rather the ones that we have formed in our minds) of the following characters: Alexander Mahone, Michael/Sara, Lincoln, Gretchen Morgan, Paul Kellerman, Theodore Bagwell, and of course, Sucre and C-Note. Due to this being an ongoing story, certain chapters are going to be written by me (kendrat199 or kendra, if you want to be familiar) and my friend Nicky, who unfortunately, doesn't have a username....yet. As you will see, we are completely different authors in the type of genres that we write. Also, some characters will have multiple chapters.

Also, I love you Prison Break! And still mourn the loss of characters that I felt should not have died :

**Post-Season 4**

**Reviews**: Greatly Appreciated

* * *

After he signed the contract, swooped the a's, and added flourish to the n's of his name, Alexander Mahone, for the first time, felt like a free man. His gaze traveled from the iridescent fifteen-paged paper towards the window, while Michael, Sara, Sucre, Benjamin Miles Franklin aka C-note, and Lincoln each regarded their own contract with a plethora of awaited opportunities. Mahone had spent so long running: after the brothers, after the company, after criminals as an F.B.I agent that he wasn't quite sure if he was able to leave that type of lifestyle entirely behind. Yet, the sky that he gazed so intently at, held something profound. The cumulus clouds, which were void of rain, moved so effortlessly, so leisurely, that they became a symbol of freedom itself. It was simply the ability to hold his head high, to lift his gaze towards the indefinite sky, rather than the gutters and public broadcasting that labeled him as a fugitive, that improved his disposition. His blue eyes closed for one brief second- sealing the moment of never having to constantly worry about being hunted- in a picturesque fashion. And then, in such an abrupt turn, he wondered about her, about Pam, his wife or rather ex-wife. "Your wife has been relocated." A United Nations co-operative stated before finishing succinctly, "she's safe." The man tried to piece together the ends of the situation, of Scylla, of the brothers, of the company, and of many ruined lives and unjustified killings, but it seemed impossible to mend because of its overwhelming complexity. Mahone let out an audible sigh to the man's automatic response-yet was it of relief or worry that the sigh was formed? The death of his son, Cameron, plagued his thoughts to this day, leaving him unable to look at parks, toy stores, or populated schools, but he had his retribution and that broughta small part of solace.

* * *

He was brought back to the warehouse, brought back to the small storage room where blood fell onto his fingertips and created a ravine ending in a blood pool at his tarnished boots. In that room where the walls were several inches thick and created barriers against sounds escape, agonizing screams took place. Mahone remembered whispering, "You will pay for what you did to him," into an ear that was coated with dried blood and perspiration. Yes, Mahone found his vengeance. The hours of torture that he delivered to his son's murderer, known only as Wyatt (including jamming electrical rods trough his fingernails), ended in the battered body sinking underneath the docks, and with it, his desire to give up on life. That act of killing though satisfying his need then, would not bring his son back, could not wipe the slate that read "our little boy" on the epitaph, but Pam must have (should have) fared worse. If It's done. It's over," he relived whispering over the public pay phone to a frantic woman on the other end. He knew that she knew that he had killed the killer of their son, and he knew that she was able to recognize that tone and dissected it of its many meanings, but that was all she had as a mode of comfort: just knowledge. Would knowledge of the fact that it was him, the boy's father, that delivered justice, help her sleep at night? Did she want to be there when he killed the man? He couldn't possibly answer that question for her. And now, she was relocated, told that after she buried her son, her husband albeit and aided in an international assassination, and that people had placed a marksman target on the measly pieces of the existence she still had left. How much money would pay for therapy sessions? No, marriage wasn't possible now, it was meant for the joining of two souls that would forever be apart because of the tragedy that occurred.

His first phone call, void of security screenings, marked his liberation and when she answered, he was left temporarily at a loss for words. "I don't have to run anymore," and as he said the words, he repeated the collective phrase again, liking the feel of his lips forming a cacophony of shapes that signaled the negation of imprisonment. Slowly, tears began to slide along his jawline and along the ammonia-wiped tiles, "I don't have to run," and his fingers ran along a small figurine that was meant to protect him, the only thing he could touch to makeherpresence tangible.

* * *

Everyone filed out of the room, each going to embrace each other as they were the only ones to survive the hell that had taken place for the past 4 years. Each person smiled as they good-naturally said their 'good lucks' to the respective person. They had lost so many people- some that they cared about and some that they loved- the mental list illustrated the names: Veronica Donovan, Nick Savrinn, Charles Westmoreland, John Abruzzi, Daniel Hale, James Whistler, Governor Tancredi, Charles Patoshik, David "Tweener" Apolskis, and Cameron Mahone, yet the list could rack up many more nameless names and no-face identities. But they had beaten the company, they had to believe that it was worth it, they had to believe that the deaths would no longer haunt them, or else sanity would also be lost.

Mahone watched as Michael embraced an emotionally-drained Sara (while having a fixed smile that alluded to him knowing something that Sara and/or others did not know), Lincoln talked to a confused and much-understood distressed Sophie, Sucre spoke in Spanish to his mother-in-law to find Maricruz and apologize for leaving so...abruptly, and C-Note was figuring out what laid ahead for him, his wife Kacey, and his daughter Dede since he would no longer have to resort to taking underhanded jobs. Mahone wondered if he should call Pam. Would the phone number still be reliable? He doubt it would. No, he stared down the hallway once the the people and the voices became conjoined in a jumbled blur. No one had come for him. He smiled to himself sardonically, "I don't blame them." Then he felt something, a tap against his shoulder.

He turned around hesitantly, was it Michael and Lincoln telling him that they held no animosity towards him for killing their father and thus, forming a somewhat friendship, or was it Sara for a somewhat gratitude that she felt she owed to him because he saved Lincoln. No, it was agent Lang-scratch that, he was a civilian now-Felicia.

* * *

"And here I thought your plan would never come into fruition, Alex."

"Yes, well," he regarded her stoic position, the position of an F.B.I agent that was trained mercilessly under her boss, or rather her ex-boss now, himself. "I'm full of surprises," he continued, his lips quirking ever so slightly to show a genuine smile that was long overdue. And then, the oddest thing happened, she hugged him. Her arms encased his body for a brief moment before quickly letting go, letting her eyes travel to the floor, and then once again, resume her frigid position like a military officer.

"I am sorry." she had said, her dark brown irises moving to scan his reaction, thinking that he must be yearning to be distant, aloof. She took out her cell phone, pressing the 1 of the minute black toggled keys. "_I don't have to run _anymore," it replayed the mechanized voice recording that he had left mere minutes ago. Why she stood outside the hallway waiting for the verdict to decide what would happen to the only person she cared for out of the rest of the "convicts", was something she could not explain if Head Quarters had asked, but simply did out of an unspoken obligation."They are announcing that after four years of running, that you and the others are deemed innocent and are no longer on the Most Wanted List in America. I came....I came because I wanted to congratulate you and to apologize for not trusting you when you needed me to." And her eyes began to water because of the stress she dealt with not knowing if the man she had respected for years, had admired, had always wanted, would end up in a body bag.

Alex Mahone was puzzled by the woman in front of him. She had apologized for something that did not need an apology. He remembered her saying "he went that way" leading Agent Wheeler off on the wrong path, while mere yards were between her and himself that if she wanted, could have ended in his arrest and a long, ugly trial. But, she had let him go,and he knew that she trusted him then. A few inches separated their bodies now, Felicia was still in her F.B.I uniform and he was still in the dim gray apparel that marked his appearance as a man wanting to be unseen. He took a step further, and she stood her ground. Her brown eyes locked onto his blue ones and she tried to calculate what he was thinking and conceive what was her new plan if he got any closer. Colleagues, Associates, Friends...what was another adjective that she could give to his mannerisms now. He was now looming over her, his chest slightly pressed against her own, and somehow she did not remember how he had gotten so close to her without her noticing. She was too distracted in her thoughts, clearly, and to show her discomfort she automatically swallowed the lump that arose in her throat. And then, with all the intricacies of the day, he pulled her towards him, their bodies becoming compressed unity as he hugged her. "I could use a cup of coffee," he whispered in her ear.

She smiled. Was it from the intimate moment or from the fact that he didn't ask about where he stood in the Federal Bureau or that he wanted to spend time with her and not run to his wife, which by all accounts he should be doing. "I know the perfect place. How do you feel about leaving L.A for a while?" She asked, a grin forming out of pure content."As much as been kind to me, Los Angeles makes the rest of California seem authentic" And there they went, leaving everyone behind, to see where this new path would take them.

* * *

**TBC**. You Decide Next Chapter would be more of a hooking up, I suppose. Reviews Welcome. And also, PRISON BREAK IS THE BEST!


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